


Dinner Date

by anonymonypony



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 19:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2479391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymonypony/pseuds/anonymonypony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor takes Oliver out on a dinner date at an Italian restaurant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner Date

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly hastily written fluff after...having dinner at an Italian restaurant. Unbetaed, let me know if there are glaring errors. Thanks for reading!

What’s a Tuesday evening but a regular weeknight? Curiously enough, the quietest night of the week too, as people hurry home straight from work, chins tucked into the upturned collars of their coats.

_A regular night is the best time for a surprise_ , Connor thinks.

Court adjourned at 4pm today and Professor Keating did not keep them for much longer. They went back to her office, did some customary paperwork, and were allowed to leave while the sun still shone. Pretty remarkable considering it’s almost winter.

With an unusual amount of free time, Connor is left to figure out what to do with it. He can have sex, which is an idea, but not a particularly special one as Connor scans through the nearby list on Grindr. No, well-muscled stud with the glaring grammatical error in his first message. “Your” such a turnoff. No, self-loathing Asian twink who dates white boys only. God, Oliver would have so much to say about this. Oliver with those eloquent words spilling from those elegant lips. Mm hmm.

With a smile Connor makes his way to Oliver’s office building. He gets there a tad too early—it’s the time when the secretaries and the PAs leave for the day. The IT folks don’t leave till later. Connor checks into the bar opposite and downs a couple of G&T’s.

For a brief moment Connor recalls when Michaela talked about her vacation plans over winter break. She’ll be going to Aspen, a ski trip, with fancy friends of her parents and Connor makes a face.  _Yeah, not everyone’s like that_ , he thinks, as he tries to contain the jealousy.

It’s bar o’clock and some people from Oliver’s department drop in. Oliver is not with them, which is the only thing Connor notes, and he slips out of the bar as quickly as he can while scanning the street in an attempt to pick Oliver out.

Oliver’s only about twenty paces away from his office building, on the opposite side of the road. Connor makes an unseemly dash, cutting across peak hour traffic in doing so. Irate taxi drivers honk at him, loud enough to have people turn their heads, Oliver included, and Connor has to smooth down the front of his coat like he’s totally unruffled.

"Had some business here today," Connor begins, like he hasn’t come down all this way from law school.

"Oh?" Oliver replies, with a deliberate arch of the eyebrow.

"Yeah. What a coincidence, seeing you here," Connor tries to pass off with an air of insouciance.

"This is my office building after all," Oliver says, with a tinge of too much pointed sarcasm.

"Coincidence after coincidence," Connor remarks, finishing off with a smirk. "I also happen to be free this evening, if it interests you."

"Another coincidence!" Oliver exclaims, the sarcasm so thick it could be spread like butter.

"Italian?" Connor suggests, before Oliver can get another word in.

"Sure, surprise me," Connor replies.

Connor takes Oliver to a rustic old trattoria at the end of a small alley not too far from Oliver’s place. He’s never been here before, so he’ll have to preface that to Oliver. If the food turns out bad then, well, Connor just has to make it up in other ways.

They order frittata to start, which comes to them in small cast iron bowls. The frittata is a lovely golden yellow and there’s even a whiff of truffle in it.

The truffle wasn’t stated in the menu.

When they eat the frittata, Oliver remarks that this beats all the Chinese takeout they’ve had so far, and Connor starts to worry that he’s raised the bar just a little too high. If Oliver’s going to want truffle at every meal from now on, well, Connor might be forced to make a few hard decisions, like truffle in mac and cheese or truffle with fries.

Pizza is next to follow, macellaio pizza, topped with all kinds of meat from the butchery. It’s delicious and they start talking about their workday.

Oliver complains about some motherfucker who “replied all” to a firmwide email and killed the servers.

Connor complains about his classmates and their typical rich people vacations in Aspen and whatever.

Oliver laughs and says that he’s only been on vacations to places where his family have relatives, the point of the vacation being to see the relatives: his grandmother in Manila, that uncle in Oakland and some cousin in Washington state.

Connor leans back into his chair in a moment of disbelief. The trattoria is really well-decorated, almost an authentic slice of countryside Italy with empty wine bottles all along the side of the walls and dreamy photos of the Mediterranean Sea.

"Let’s go to Italy," Connor abruptly suggests, leaning forward into the table to make his point. "Right now."

"What? No! That’s a ridiculous suggestion," Oliver remarks. "For one, you have law school to attend. For another, the flights are probably either all booked out or too expensive. For a third, I will most definitely not be able to get my leave approved without a notice period."

Connor senses a challenge, and, true to himself, he relishes every challenge. “Winter break it is. You can submit your notice to your corporate overlords and I will swing by to your place impeccably dressed in an Italian suit—we must blend in with the locals after all, and it might score us that free upgrade—with my lightweight Samsonite case and I will take your shabbier but  _still_  Samsonite suitcase off your work-exhausted hands and roll it down to the limousine at your lobby, waiting to take us to the airport. How does that sound?”

"Will we see much of Italy during the winter? I’m not sure if it’ll be a good use of our time if it gets dark early."

"Oh,  _Oliver_ ,” Connot tuts with mock disapproval. “Did you think we were going to Italy to see the tourist sights?”

"I heard the men in Italy are exceptionally good-looking. But that might be hard to verify in the dark."

_Oh, snap._  Oliver’s got him good. Connor tries not to laugh.

"I was hoping to  _experience_  the fine Italian bedsheets at a luxurious villa,” Connor offers suggestively.

"You can do that at my place too, you know," Oliver says in a matter-of-fact tone.

This is going exactly where Connor wants it to go. He leans over the table, close enough to whisper into Oliver’s ears.

"Oh, are your bedsheets Italian? You have  _such_  good taste in interior decoration.”

Oliver does that cute laugh of his, the one where he’s trying to avoid eye contact. The tips of his ears are turning an adorable shade of tomato red, and Connor can’t resist the urge to lick the inside corner for a brief millisecond.

Oliver can’t even manage a comeback, struggling with a confusion of mock outrage and giggles.

Connor downs the rest of his wine. “I’ll get the check then?” Connor ventures, with a smirk on his face.

It wasn’t like the food was bad at all, not in the slightest. The food was awesome, so Connor lost his first excuse for sex, which was to make up for the bad food because these hole in the wall eateries can be such a hit-or-miss. Connor supposes it will have to be the bedsheets then, the backup excuse for sex. The indescribable experience of fine Italian bedsheets. But when Connor shows up at the courtroom the next day, he realises he can’t remember a single thing about the bedsheets because he was, ahem, completely distracted by other things.

Guess he’ll have to go back again. For the bedsheets this time.


End file.
